


At Least

by quartetship



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 09:56:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2768954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartetship/pseuds/quartetship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>["I thought you were..."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Least

**Author's Note:**

> So [nippaaah](http://tmblr.co/mQf0Cm8AklBdC3DEg3pdLCQ) is a really amazing artist, and recently I was cruising through their art tag [and found this](http://nippaaah.tumblr.com/post/97751901486/i-made-myself-sad-otl), and for some reason my brain screamed 'what if those were HAPPY tears?!' So this happened.
> 
> **Note** : This is set in canon-verse, but is obviously divergent from _actual_ canon. I'm not a big 'Marco's alive!' theorist, but this is just a _'what if'_ situation based on some theories I've heard floating around.
> 
> \--

Wandering streets drenched in the death and the destruction of the days before, Jean divorces himself from what is happening around him. Bodies - sometimes only parts of them - are everywhere; blood clings to brick and wood and ash hangs heavy in the air. It's carnage like he's never seen, permeating sadness like he's never known. He has a job to do though, helping put people back on the path to recovery by  _recovering_  what's left of the military's dignity among the rubble. There isn't time to be angry and disgusted; he just does what he's told, ignoring his bitterness. This is just one more obstacle between him and the life he's worked for, and he pushes through it just to move closer to the promise of the other side of the interior wall. They're just bodies after all, just faces in a morbid crowd - just part of the job - until he recognizes one.

_It's not him_ , his brain protests.  _It can't be. Things like that don't happen to people like him._ But Jean knows that isn't true in the world he lives in now, and the reality of what he's seeing settles over him with a sharp sting behind his eyes. He tries to speak to the corpse propped against the wall in front of him, but he can barely breathe. All he can manage is a stuttering chorus of  _no, no, no..._

Jean has no siblings, made no strides to make friends during his training. People he really cares about are few in number, and he's never been the type to make sure those people knew they were valued. Eyes on the prize of success and comfort, there's never been time for meaningful looks, or for pointlessly repeated professions of care. Now those same eyes fall on the lifeless body below him, and he claws at the fading hope that he hasn't missed his chance.

Maybe it's someone else - it's hard to be certain when a face is all but destroyed.  _Where is his jacket?_   _Why are his freckles so hard to see? Is that even the shirt he usually wears?_  Jean hates himself for not being sure, but with at least a thousand desperate doubts swirling in his mind, he crouches to get a closer look.

It doesn't help.

It should - being this close should give it away immediately, as close as they've been before. Those memories flood his mind, and he scrambles to remember the details of a body he's only touched cautiously, curiously - hidden in the blanket of darkness of nights in the barracks. But it does nothing to quiet the screaming of his conflicted thoughts, loud against the eerie silence crushing him from every side. He's too numb to scream, to cry; instead he stands again and covers his face with gloved hands, beginning to think about all the things he should've said when he had the voice - and the chance.

"Jean?"

His name - heard from above - splits the silence, and he raises his eyes to the sound. The hazy sunlight peeking over the tops of the surrounding buildings makes it hard to see clearly, but the silhouette on the roof is unmistakable. He stops and stares, and the tears he'd been too shocked for moments before slick his cheeks. He cannot speak, but thankfully his hearing doesn't fail him; he  _knows_  that voice.

"Jean?" The voice repeats, and then the person above him is crouching at the edge of the rooftop, waving down at him frantically. "You're okay – I've looked everywhere – I was so worried!"

"Marco", Jean finally whispers, and even though he's sure Marco can't hear him, they nod at each other and the tears fall faster. Marco motions to him to hold still, and then disappears, leaving Jean frozen and watching the spot where he stood.

He glances down at the fallen soldier at his feet - the one that still looks so much like his friend - and wonders if he imagined the whole thing. Glancing back up at the empty roof, he waits; Marco isn't there, and he begins to believe he never was.

"Jean!"

The voice comes a third time, from somewhere behind him this time, and he turns to see Marco yards away, walking toward him at a quick clip. He doesn't respond, voice still too thick to push from his throat. Instead he stands, mouth just parted and face burning beneath drying tears; Marco's pace becomes a run, and Jean is still frozen in place when Marco hits him full force, arms wrapping roughly around his shoulders.

"You're okay", he repeats, rambling praises to the gods and clinging to Jean's collar. Jean lets his head fall forward, the sight and the smell and the  _feel_  of Marco's warm,  _living_  skin robbing him of most of his breath. He glances back to the streets littered with bodies and rubble, and finally finds the strength to raise his arms to Marco's waist.

"I thought you were..."

He starts but never finishes, because the words are acid on his tongue, burning with the feeling of gut-wrenching loss he'd had only minutes before. Swallowing them instead, he shakes his head. Marco squeezes him tighter - until it almost hurts - and Jean is glad for it. He buries his face in the crook of Marco's neck and just breathes along with him.

A silent prayer to whoever might hear him and a few quiet words of respect are all he leaves the nameless fallen soldier with, knowing firsthand the heartbreak that his loved ones will feel. But the medical examiner reminds him that they do not have time for the luxury of grief, and seeing Marco standing a few feet away - living, breathing,  _still beside him_  - he agrees with her. There is work yet to be done, and life yet to be lived; he leads Marco back to the base to meet up with the others, knowing that for today at least, he doesn't have to face it alone.

 


End file.
